


And All the King's Men

by newamsterdam



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Hetalia Kink Meme, Historical References, M/M, Rough Sex, Unresolved Emotional Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-17
Updated: 2014-11-17
Packaged: 2018-02-25 19:49:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,974
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2634068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/newamsterdam/pseuds/newamsterdam
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>England doesn't really care what France feels for him, as long as he's the one holding his attention. Post Battle of Waterloo.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And All the King's Men

**Author's Note:**

> Fair warning: there are insinuations in this that France isn’t quite “sane,” at least not from England’s perspective. From my position as author, I don’t think he actually is (and therefore don’t think his ability to consent is impeded), but the implication is there and I don’t want to make anyone uncomfortable.
> 
> Originally posted [here](http://hetalia-kink.dreamwidth.org/84399.html?thread=512527279#cmt512527279) at the Hetalia Kink Meme.

“Get up.” 

England’s voice is sharp and precise; he kicks open the door and strides in like he owns the world. His coat is red, and his face is stained—a cut across one cheek and dirt covering the rest of it, though never those eyebrows. But his expression is fierce and his eyes are practically glowing by the lamp light, and here, here is a man who is well-pleased with himself. 

France does not look up. “Can’t,” he says, chin against his chest. His hair had been tied back, earlier today, but now it hangs in his face in strands—somehow artful, still, even though he’s covered in grime and sweat and blood. His eyes are downcast, and England can’t see the blue of them—he doesn’t like that. 

“I said,” England repeats, taking a few steps forward as his boot heels click against the floor, “Get _up_.” He punctuates the last word with one gloved hand under France’s chin, grabbing and pulling his head up. France still casts his eyes down, long lashes foolishly graceful against his dirtied cheeks. 

“No,” France says, lazily. As if he’s reclined on a chaise lounge, and isn’t shackled to a plain wooden chair in a holding room, in a godforsaken castle in Belgium. As if he hasn’t just lost. 

“No,” England says, tilting his head to one side. There is a sharpness to him, a wildness that courses through his veins like heavy salt water. He runs his tongue over his lips, tasting blood from cuts that haven’t even begun to heal. He hums to himself, something that could hardly be called a melody. But it makes it more jarring, when his other hand comes up to fist in in France’s hair, and he tugs hard enough to bring tears to the other man’s eyes as he finally, finally, looks up. 

“Are you sane, again?” England asks in a low, conspiratorial whisper. France is never quite sane; anyone who’s lived on a precipice between the luxury of his kings and the poverty of his people for so long couldn’t possibly be. But the past few decades have been so much worse than the past few centuries, and England wants to know—“Are you back, now?” 

France looks up, locks his gaze to England’s and just stares. These blue eyes are not the ones that belong to England’s oldest memories—those are clear and bright, like the sky. These eyes are deep, and dark—shattered like a kaleidoscope, seeing too many things at once. England would think that such eyes wouldn’t be able to focus, and yet France’s gaze bores into him, holds him in place even though France is the one tied to a chair and clutched in England’s harsh grip. 

He keeps staring until finally it is England who looks away. But his grip tightens in France’s hair, and he hisses, “Say something, damn it. Say something, you stupid frog.” 

France tilts his head back at an angle and it’s disconcerting, it’s like his head isn’t connected to his shoulders. He bites down on his lower lip and lets his head loll, something like laughter rising up from the depths of his chest. 

“Un petit d'un petit,” he sing-songs, “S'étonne aux Halles!” 

England releases his hold on France and takes a step back, eyes wide. His brow furrows as he tries to make sense of the speech, ignoring his normal aversion to France’s language. But there’s no substance to the other man’s words. 

“ _France_ ,” England says. “Do you understand what’s happened, to you?” 

France’s head tilts to one side then the other. “Un petit d'un petit…Ah! degrés te fallent!” He laughs again, that horrible sound. 

“ _France_!” England yells. He wants to kick the other man, he wants to aim a punch right at his jaw like he did, just hours ago. 

But then France sits up straight, shoulders squared and expression utterly serious. He purses his lips for a moment, looks thoughtful—like he’s composing what he’s about to say. 

“What of Napoleon?” he says, quietly. There is such longing in that voice, and England almost thinks that he prefers the madness to this too serious emotion. 

But England does not voice such thoughts. Instead, he scoffs. “He should have learned his lesson. We won’t be exiling him so close, this time.” 

France’s face falls. He looks down at his feet, and asks, “But not execution.” 

This time England rolls his eyes. “It’s you that kills your failed rulers, France. Not the rest of us.” 

It’s a low blow, he thinks as he watches France flinch. But it’s a normal and expected reaction, and that’s what he wants. He reclaims his spot right in front of France, kneels down and braces one hand on the other’s knee. France’s white breeches are covered in dirt from where he’d fallen on the battlefield, torn from when he and England had scuffled wildly in a tangle of limbs. 

“You’ve lost, France,” England says quietly, looking up into that mad blue gaze. “Do you accept that?” 

He watches as France swallows, Adam’s apple shifting with the motion. 

“You don’t understand,” France says finally, and England loves it, because he sounds so sanctimonious, so superior, just like he used to. England grins, sharply, and the grabs at France’s bound hands. He reaches down to his boot, grips his knife between his fingers and cuts through the ropes around France’s wrists in one fluid motion. Then he steps away, tucks the knife back and spreads his hands. He lifts his chin, challenging. 

“Why don’t you make me understand, then?” 

For a moment, there is utter silence between them. France rises slowly to his feet, fingers clenching at his sides. He’s still a few precious inches taller than England, but even now, on his feet, he seems small. Weak, and defeated, and just where England wants him to be. The island’s lips twist into a wicked grin as he looks down his nose at his dearest enemy. 

And then something in the atmosphere snaps. France grabs for England, one hand on his shoulder and the other at his neck, propelling them both backwards until England’s back slams against the heavy wooden door. 

(And, England knows, the door is bolted shut from the outside, Netherlands and Belgium are guarding it, they will not let France escape…) 

“You,” France hisses, voice filled with bile and poison, “You have ruined everything. That is what you should understand.” 

Their faces are only an inch apart. The air between them smells of sweat and dirt and blood. And England finds all of this terribly intoxicating, terribly arousing, even France’s grip on his neck, fingers curling with enough force to bruise. 

England tilts his chin up and captures France’s bottom lip between his teeth, biting down until France gasps in pain. England surges forward, thrusts his tongue between France’s lips and kisses him as though he can suck the air right out of his lungs. 

This is what he has missed, England thinks triumphantly. France’s skin shivers beneath him as England holds the other man by the back of the neck, his other hand fisted in France’s hair. He kisses him and kisses him until he can taste blood on his tongue, until France wrenches away with a pained gasp, chest heaving with the effort to breathe around his bruises and injuries. 

And what England has missed most of all is, perhaps, the tone in his own voice when he lifts his hands away from France, and says, “When was the last time anyone touched you, France?” 

France tries to pull away, but England holds onto him tight and fast, his grin manic and self-satisfied. He leans in, so that when he speaks his breath ghosts across France’s lips. 

“Oh, we all know,” England whispers. “Half of the bloody continent living in your house, and none of them wanted you, did they? All too afraid to catch your Liberty and Fraternity…” 

France squeezes his eyes shut and tries to shake his head, but England tugs on his hair. 

“We spoke of it, you know. Portugal and I. Not even his brother would have you, isn’t that right? The only country in the world who’s as much of a slut as you are, and even he—”

England has barely felt himself move when he’s slammed once more into the heavy door. France’s eyes snap open, his hands bunched into England’s coat. He hasn’t yet lost the strength that comes from conquering a continent, and England isn’t surprised when France lifts him several inches off the ground, only to throw him against the door again. 

“You,” France says deliberately, “will shut your mouth.” 

England laughs, opens his mouth wider. He leans in, uses his grip on France’s hair to pull the other man’s face towards his. His teeth clamp around the lobe of France’s ear, and he bites and sucks and watches the tension rock through France’s lithe frame. 

Here is a secret that anyone could guess, if they so chose: France lives and dies by physical affection. He cannot stand to be isolated, and his promiscuity is at least partially borne of the fact that he hates to fall asleep alone. He makes himself available out of not generosity, but selfishness—he needs it far more than his partners do. England has long suspected that despite France’s claims that he is a poet and philosopher, a man of words, he actually communicates best (only) through touch. 

So England cards his gloved fingers through France’s hair, a facsimile of a tender gesture. France shudders, and bites down on his lower lip. 

“You can say it, you know,” England says softly. “You can tell me how much you want me.”

It takes him a minute to regain control of himself, but eventually France laughs, rich and deep in his throat. “Why would I want you?” he asks, derisively. “Your ‘skills’ are as coarse as the rest of you.” 

“Hmm,” England says, as though he’s thinking it over. Still stroking France’s hair, still lifted against the door, he murmurs, “I wondered, you know. Why you just couldn’t let me be. You could’ve had the whole continent, maybe, if you hadn’t tried to have me as well.”

They both know that with or without England, France would have fallen eventually. No one has managed to control so much of Europe since Austria and Spain’s misbegotten marriage, or maybe since Rome himself, and in any case there is Russia to consider. But losing to England is so much more personal for France.

“You would have been lonely, cher,” France says teasingly. “Aren’t you always worried what we’re getting up to without you?”

Europe can go hang, as far as England is concerned. He only gets involved in these affairs to keep everyone—France especially—in check. 

“I’ve already told you,” England says coolly. “Portugal and I were having a grand old time.”

“Portugal is not me.” 

“Thank god.”

“You don’t mean that.” France’s smile has bite. “You want me.”

“Do I?” England says, sounds bored. Though he must admit, the sight of France, taut and aroused and only for him, is sufficiently intoxicating. 

“Yes.” France’s voice is no more than a breath. “As much as… as much as I want you, at least.”

Ah, there it is. France’s voice breaks on his need, his desire. England knows he has won. He lets his lips linger over the shell of France’s ear as he whispers, “Prove it.”

It only takes France a moment’s pause before he complies. He releases his grip on England and the other man huffs as his feet hit the floor, but in the next moment he is distracted as France very elegantly kneels. 

This is the picture France makes: on his knees, shoulders bent forward, hair falling across his shoulders. He looks up at England through lidded eyes and his irises are dark, terribly dark and fractured but undeniably aroused. He licks his lips, for effect. He hasn’t cast off the sultry luxury of the Bourbons as much as he’d like to think. 

His hands work beneath England’s coat, pulling at his breeches until they free England’s cock. France runs his fingers over it, squeezes it once, just this side of too tight. England’s head falls back against the door as he lets loose a low, satisfied moan. 

England rests his hands on France’s shoulders and says, “I will explain it to you, you great bloody idiot.” His fingers dig into France as the other man looks up at him, his too gentle touch still skirting over England’s cock. “You— _ah_ —brought this on yourself. And you couldn’t even keep it— again, do that again— to yourself, could you?” 

France looks up, demure and innocent. “And what is ‘it,’ Angleterre?” 

England’s eyebrows pull down into a fierce glare. “Don’t play coy with me, France. You know damn well, your stupid fucking Enlightenment. You act like you’re so much better than the rest of us, but where did that get you? An emperor— ah!” 

This, this France does very well. Tongue and teeth and lips, all working in a rhythmic pattern that shifts just as England begins to predict it. He moans, once, just as the dance changes its step. He digs his fingers into France’s hair, tugs sharply as though he can guide the movements. But France is accustomed to leading, and even on his knees he is as regal and controlled as a king, damn him.

“You,” England begins, only to be cut off by a particularly wet slide of France’s tongue. “Ah!”

France smirks, releases England’s cock and licks his lips. “You’re angry about America,” he says, knowingly. “You’re still angry, even now.”

England glowers, resists the urge to kick France in the stomach. 

“Don’t deny it,” France insists. “Even though Locke and Hobbes had as much to do with it as Rousseau or Voltaire! You petty, terrible little man.”

England does deny it. His issues with America are ongoing, but his own. He does not have to explain himself to anyone, least of all France. (And certainly not Canada, not even when Canada questions him, even when he orders Canada further into America’s lands…)

“I remember Rousseau,” England says. “Tell me, did he ever succeed? Do you know how to think now, France?”

Again, France glowers. Again, his eyes go unfocused for a moment—it looks, fleetingly, as though he’s trying to remember something. For that moment, England’s heart leaps painfully to his throat. To see France without his typical shrewd intelligence, without his charismatic confidence, is… unnerving. He looks lost, like a child. 

“Indolent qui ne sort cesse,” he murmurs, under his breath. “Indolent qui ne se mène…”

England does not want to hear his nonsense, again. (He doesn’t want to have to think about what it means.) He leans down and grips France by the shoulders, pulls him up to his feet and presses their lips together.

The effect is instantaneous. France melts against him, sighs into the kiss and opens his lips. He waits for England’s tongue, then teases it with his own. His body relaxes entirely, the tension leaving his shoulders and his hands. He shuts his eyes, which England is grateful for. He succumbs to that great weakness: touch. 

England can feel it as France starts to rock against him, transmitting his need in abrupt, jerking motions. England lets one of his hands drift down the line of France’s back, stroking softly as France’s tongue dances between his lips. This time, it’s England who pulls away, still holding France in a half-embrace. 

“You’re so _easy_ ,” he taunts. 

This time, there is no clever response. France’s eyes are blown wide, his lips rose pink as he takes in small, gasping breaths. “Angleterre,” he groans as England brushes fingers against his cheek, “Angleterre, you will—”

“I will,” England assures him, voice dark with promise. He reaches down to cup France’s erection through layers of cloth, and when France lets loose a moan England presses his advantage. He moves his feet as though through the steps of a dance—heel, toe, turn. He grips France’s shoulders and reverses their positions, propelling France face-forward into the door.

(And if Netherlands or Belgium is standing outside, listening to this, well that’s just their own fault, isn’t it?)

France is braced against the door, palms flat. England enjoys the picture, but thinks it could be better. He steps back, pulling France with him. 

“Take that off,” he orders, waving a dismissive hand at France’s breeches, his boots. France licks his lips and smirks at England—ever the exhibitionist, he sheds his clothes with practiced ease. There is, however, a hint of hesitation—when he remembers there’s no knife left stashed in his boot, perhaps, or when he realizes there is no gun to lean against the wall. He has been stripped bare of all his weapons, anything that could make him a threat. 

Bare from the waist down, France runs a hand through his hair and locks his gaze to England’s. What rankles, now, is that despite the fact that he is utterly defeated (and perhaps still a bit mad), he does not act the part of a loser. He stands without shame, shoulders back and head high. His profile catches the lamplight, the perfect template for sculpture or painting. He is still wearing the coat of Napoleon’s army.

“Well,” he asks, voice deep with arousal. The moment’s reprieve has allowed him to back away from the edge of desperation, but he is clearly still wanting. “Are you just going to stand there, sourcils?” 

“I might,” England taunts. “But that would be cruel to you, wouldn’t it?”

France opens his mouth to respond, but England does not give him the opportunity. Again, again, back into the door, with England’s hands clasped so hard on his shoulders he’s surprised he doesn’t hear France’s bones snap. France grunts, weakly, but then England presses his lips to the nape of France’s neck, licking and sucking. France sighs heavily and relaxes, leans into England’s touch and the warm weight of his body as much as he can. 

England’s tongue traces the angry red line of the scar on France’s neck, and France moans outright. 

“Angleterre,” he breathes. “Angleterre, I need—”

England knows a victory when he hears one. He reaches forward to grip France’s cock in a gloved hand, jacking the other man off with firm, deliberate strokes as France writhes. 

“Tell me,” England whispers against his ear, “Tell me what you want, France, and I swear I’ll give it to you. I’ll fuck you so hard you’ll see goddamn stars, so hard you’ll forget what it ever was to be an empire—”

France hisses as England sinks his teeth into the jut of his jaw. Whether he’s offended or aroused by the sentiment, he’s still melting into England’s touch. “Yes,” he says, a mindless, repetitive refrain. “Yes, yes, yes, yes, please.”

England releases him and France keens at the loss. He turns his head wildly, searching for England with hazy eyes. England brings his fingers to France’s lips, hushes him as though he were a child. 

“Patience, frog,” he says, chidingly. France does not move away from the door, although England is no longer holding him there. 

He strokes his own long-neglected cock, still slick from France’s saliva. He catches the finger of one glove with his teeth and yanks it off, dropping to the side as he pulls off its mate. Now his bare hands find the curve of France’s ass, pull his cheeks apart and probe with firm pressure as France hisses and curses. 

“I know,” England soothes, pushing one hand up France’s coat to stroke the skin of his back. “I know.” He pushes his fingers into France dry, and loves the involuntary tremors that run through the other’s body. France is crying out in some mangled, abominable combination of French and English and Corsican Italian. France is tight around his fingers, but England only stretches him perfunctorily, leaning in to kiss the nape of France’s neck. 

He gives France no other warning as he guides his cock into place, slamming into the other man with one fluid motion. France throws back his head and clenches his teeth together, so that the only sound he makes is a high-pitched whistle as the breath abruptly flees his body. 

England bites down on the tender skin of France’s neck, now. He grips the other man’s wrists in his hands and holds him in place as he pounds into him. Unlike France, he does not value dancing elegance or musical rhythm; rather, England applies steady and forceful pressure, moving with even, deep strokes. 

It seems as though only a few moments have gone by when France begins trembling in earnest, finally releasing his voice to beg, “Touch me, Angleterre—ah! Please, just, I need to—”

England is smug and has a tendency for cruelty, but even he could not deny such a request. He reaches for France’s cock and strokes him with just too-much pressure, the way he knows France enjoys it. With England pounding into him and biting his skin and stroking him off, it takes only a moment for France to tense and come with a cry, spilling hot over England’s fingers. 

The sensation is too much for England, and he follows France immediately into release, his vision going white and then black, until finally he comes back to himself to the sound of France whimpering. The other man tips dangerously backward, and then forward, and England catches on the moment before France’s knees buckle. He throws one arm around France’s waist to keep him upright, pulls himself out of the other and lowers them both to the floor. 

England braces himself on his knees as France collapses against his chest, his entire body heaving with each painfully-drawn breath. The backs of his thighs are stained with England’s come, his fair hair is a disheveled mess and beneath the scent of sex there is the undeniable tang of blood in the air, from a battle that seems further behind them than it is. 

They have been here, before—sometimes the positions are reversed, but it is not unfamiliar in the slightest.

And England remembers another time, too—when they were both too small to know better and thought the world was ending, and all France wanted was to hold England in his arms. Unconsciously, England does the same for France now—wraps him up in an unselfconscious embrace, hands sliding up and down his back as France murmurs nothings into England’s chest. 

“It’s over,” England says with quiet intensity. “You’ve had your revolution, and your empire, and now your hundred days. But it’s over. And now we are going to set things back to normal.” 

Now France looks up, though he does not pull away from England’s embrace.

“Qu’importe un petit d’un petite,” he murmurs, gaze dark. “Tout Gai de Reguennes.” 

England shudders at the words, doesn’t want to understand them. He lifts one hand to cup France’s cheek, pulls him forward for a searing kiss. France pushes into him, his fingers tangling in England’s coat. 

“Shush,” England says, when they pull apart. “Just, let it go, France. We’ll head to Vienna in the morning.”

France’s latest Bourbon king is waiting for him, there. He will never see Napoleon again. And the Republic is a more impossible dream than the Empire. Tears prick in his changeable blue eyes, and he begins rocking back and forth, quietly, in England’s hold.

“Shush, France,” England says again, not unkindly. “Shush, shush.”

“I hate you,” France says. England leans down to kiss the crown of his head.

“I know,” he says. But as long as France’s attention is on him, he doesn’t mind.

**Author's Note:**

> This fic takes place after the Battle of Waterloo (18 June 1815), which was Napoleon’s final defeat. A coalition army of British, Prussian, Dutch and other troops defeated the former French Emperor after the period known as the Hundred Days. Although the collective Coalition Army defeated Napoleon, the British Duke of Wellington has historically been viewed as his greatest military rival. 
> 
> The Congress of Vienna had been ongoing, at this point, and had already restored the Bourbon monarchy in France in 1814. I choose to believe, however, that France himself had not really accepted this at the time of the Hundred Days. 
> 
> England’s talk about Portugal and Spain refers to the Continental System and the Peninsular War. The Continental System essentially proved that Europe needed Britain a lot more than Britain needed Europe, at least economically. 
> 
> The America Revolution was, of course, influenced by the Enlightenment ideals that had found voice in the salons of 18th century Paris. Those same ideas fueled the French Revolution a few decades later. (Rousseau, as it happens, was praised for teaching the common man how to think, and then condemned for teaching them how to think too much.) 
> 
> During the Napoleonic Wars, Britain was at war with the United States, too! The War of 1812 utilized a lot of Canadian troops. Seriously, the FACE family hadn’t been this dysfunctional since the French and Indian War. 
> 
> One of my favorite France headcanons is that he was sent to the guillotine, and has a scar from it on his neck. So that’s what that part was about.
> 
> And finally, the “French” that France speaks intermittently through this fic is actually from [Mots d’Heures](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mots_d'Heures), a French “translation” of Mother Goose rhymes. These are not actual translations, but simply phonetic rewrites of the rhymes in the French language. So France was actually saying the Humpty Dumpty rhyme in what might have been understandable English, if England had tried to listen. (Although the rhymes themselves are a bit anachronistic.) I had heard the Congress Vienna described as “all the king’s horses and all the king’s men” of the rhyme, with Europe being Humpty Dumpty—they couldn’t put the continent back together again, which is what France is telling England. But the rhyme also plays into England’s views that the Revolution just drove France mad. It’s convenient for him, since the powers of Europe weren’t really ready to accept that the ideas of the Revolution were actually legitimate, even if the Revolution itself had been consumed by violence. 
> 
> (So—either France is insane, like England implies, or England is just not at a place where he can understand France anymore, and France is taunting England because England’s being a dick.)


End file.
